


Please Don't Die

by NervousOtaku



Series: Writer's Block Short Stories And Plot Bunny Dump [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 06:24:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousOtaku/pseuds/NervousOtaku





	Please Don't Die

When people make gifts of bouquets, there is meaning in them. Very few realize that these days. They don’t see the sentiments each flower has to display, don’t hear the song each bouquet sings, don’t understand the symbolism and magic. Everything is based on how pretty the flowers look.

People don’t know that a dozen roses can wish death on someone, depending on the color and time of delivery. People don’t know that the delicate clusters of rhododendrons with their vibrant colors are a warning, a plea to stay away, that there is danger. These are lost arts, slowly dying each day.

I draw the Six Of Swords and stare another dying art in the face.

There is meaning in tarot cards the same way there is meaning in flowers. Dependent on numbers, timing, context, and their surrounding brethren. The Devil does not always represent evil, but rather desire and social deviance. The Lovers rarely represent love, but rather crossroads and tough decisions. A rose can mean love or hatred, can be an invitation to wed or a plea to stay dead.

I choose a black ribbon and punch a hole in the Six Of Swords.

I take five hydrangeas, the naturally blue and white variegation. I add twenty sweet peas, pale pink with purple veins. I add succulents, green goddess echeveria, and make sure to only add three in order to keep the number odd. I fuss with the arrangement, picking and pulling, rolling and twirling, until they all settle in a way that doesn’t fight. Content with this, I wrap them in the black ribbon, a tarot card hanging like a tag saying ‘hello.’

As I tuck my bouquet into a pot of ash, the lid set aside, people smile and tell me it’s beautiful. That I have talent, an eye for colors, I should make bouquets for them. None of them see what I am saying or hear the way I cry.

I shake my head and hope that none of them ever come to make such arrangements, ever need the prayers that I’m begging with.


End file.
